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Matthew Sweeney

Mr Lu, the guitarist

I was there when he first saw snow —a whoop, or the flame in his face woke me to see him standing at the windowin pyjamas with his clothes on underneath. He wanted to barefoot it out there —he with his allergy to English weather who slept with an electric fire on all night and enough blankets to leave him flat.

All his playing that day was offeredto the northern white that owned outside.He wanted to stop the cars, the slushing feet; left a glassful in the fridgewhich I washed out a week laterwhile his fingers called Bach to the bedroom. I told him as he hurried outwith his guitar to the windy, non-white cold.